


La Petite Mort

by misaffection



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle XI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the world comes on a wave of flames and screams</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Ba’al/Sam Carter, the end of the universe

The end of the world comes on a wave of flames and screams, the Ori decimating the cities and subjugating what's left. Resistance appears to be futile, but the SGC gathers who it can and ships them out on the Daedalus.

Sam is one of the last, staying behind to wipe precious data from the computers so that it does not fall into enemy hands. She's trying not to cry, grief and frustration – they'd been so damn close! - but they failed and now the planet is suffering the consequences. The whole universe, probably.

There is no one left to push back the tide.

Her skin prickles with static and she turns as the white flash of an Asgard beam. Shock makes her jaw drop: rather than Cameron or Daniel as she expected it to be, the man standing before her is one she thought dead several times over.

The business suit Baal wears sits uneasily alongside the handgun he has strapped to one thigh. He's bleeding from a graze to his temple and utterly filthy, as if he's been caught in an explosion. Knowing him, he probably has.

“What are you doing here?” she says and goes for her own gun. He moves fast and the grip around her wrist is like iron.

“That would be a singularly foolish idea,” he replies, voice terse. “Since I'm here to save your life.”

Sam snorts. “I don't need you – I''ll be going on the Daedalus in a moment.”

“No,” Baal says. “You won't.”

Her blood runs cold at his tone. She looks up and he gazes back steadily. Horror hits her and the room spins. His hand shoots forward again and grabs her elbow.

“Please tell me you're lying,” she breathes, thinking of the thousand and more people on the ship. Cameron. Daniel. “Please.”

“I'm sorry.” He sounds truly regretful. Tears spill down her cheeks. “You have to come with me now,” he adds. “My ship cannot remain undetected for long.”

She nods, all she is capable of and the room goes white.

They rematerialise on the bridge of an Al'kesh amidst a shower of sparks from one of the control panels. There are just three Jaffa, working quickly to keep the ship from flying apart.

It rocks with a soft boom and Sam clutches at Baal.

“My Lord, they have made our position,” says one Jaffa.

Baal nods. “Get us out of here.”

“Wait,” she says and to her surprise the guard goes still. Licking her lips, she extracts herself from Baal and heads to the viewscreen.

“Sam, don't.”

She has to. Taking a deep breath, she looks out. The Daedalus is a shattered shell, burning where the air inside escapes. Grief overwhelms her and she sobs aloud. Breaks.

Hands catch her fall, and she is swept up and into his arms. She throws her arms around his neck and weeps as he carries her out and down a corridor. She doesn't know, doesn't care.

Can't do anything except grieve.

Baal lays her on a bed, sits with her. Strokes her hair as she lets it all out, saying nothing. Sam is aware that she's being comforted by the very last person she'd expect, the very last she thought capable of doing so.

He should be dead. God knows she killed him enough times. It's not fair – how can he survive when her dearest friends haven't? When the Earth burns in the hands of the Ori.

Irrational anger floods her and she hits him, hard. He doesn't look surprised, nor does he stop her. So she hits him again, screaming and shouting, her rage blinding her.

She feels the crunch of bone as a wild fist catches his jaw. He stops her next punch, twists her arm. She snarls and brings her knee up, impacting against a thigh. There's a brief, furious struggle and they fall together in a tangle of limbs and sweat, pushing, pulling, scratching and tearing.

Her wrists get pinned down and she pants under the weight of him. Glares as he gazes down at her, eyes shining gold. He doesn't say a word, just lowers his head and kisses her hard.

Distantly, Sam knows that it's about affirmation, reassuring herself that she has survived. It's also about anger finding whatever outlet it can. She knows that as she yanks the tie around his neck loose and drops it off the bed, knows it as she tears his shirt open.

Knows it, but doesn't care.

She wants for nothing now other than to feel something else instead of anger and pain and helplessness. She wants – needs – control. Of course, she isn't really in control here: he lets her push him down on the bed and leave bloody lines across his chest, but it feels... good. She is on top and that's all that matters.

It hurts as she pushes down on to him. She was nowhere near ready, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters any more.

She slides a little further down. He grunts and pushes up. Pain makes her gasp and she slaps his face, laughing bitterly at the flare of light in his eyes.

“Come on, then,” she taunts, wildly out of control. “Give it to me. Give me what you've got.”

His eyes narrow and the light dies and she laughs again, victorious. Knowing that he wants this gives her a glow of satisfaction. She's always known this. Seen it in his eyes. And it's not as if she minds – his body is perfect and he fits inside her as if he was created solely for that purpose – and she has to admit this is a darker one of her many fantasies.

She just never imagined it like this.

Leaning over his, she kisses him hard. Bites his lower lip and tastes blood. Looks him in the eyes.

“Did you know?” she asks. “Did you know they were coming?”

“Not in so many numbers.”

“But you knew?”

“As much as you did.”

Logic. She doesn't want logic, doesn't want to be reminded of her own failure. She needs someone to blame. He is a suitable candidate.

“It wasn't supposed to go this way,” she says, and it's not anger any more. She falls apart, dropping against his bloody chest. “It wasn't...”

He rolls them over and takes control, driving thoughts and tears away with a few powerful thrusts, until she comes back to the moment, until she is suspended between what was and what will be, not caring about anything other than the way he rams in, deep and hard.

Not enough, and she mutters, “Harder.”

“Sam,” he says, and it's a warning. She shakes her head, not wanting to hear it.

“Harder.”

He pulls out. “On your knees.”

She rolls onto her stomach, heart pounding and somehow coordinates her limbs under her body. Her arms tremble too much to hold herself up and she sinks to her elbows.

A hand clutches her hip, the other she presumes he uses to guide himself in. Less than an inch and then he grabs both hips, pulling her back as he slams in hard enough to make her eyes water.

“Oh God, oh yes,” she whispers then screams as he slams in again.

He is not gentle. She doesn't want him to be. He slams in over and over, hard and relentless. It hurts and tears leak from her eyes. But she doesn't tell him to stop. She needs it to hurt.

His rhythm falters, his breathing ragged and harsh. Close, she realises, while she is nowhere near.

“No,” she says, but he jerks forward with a muted cry and she collapses, aching and incomplete. “No.”

“Come here,” he says, and pulls her close. His fingers slid inside and she whimpers, her cunt raw from his pounding. “Shush, now. Relax.”

She lets it go on a sigh, twisting her head away from his steady gaze. Sympathy is not something she can handle now, least of all from him.

His fingers are gentle and he kisses her cheek, neck, then shifts down her body to nuzzle at her breasts. She breathes out and relaxes a little more, gives herself over to ministrations that are far more tender than she thought possible.

As the pain ebbs, she feels the slow burn of desire curl in her stomach. Baal eases her past the anguish and she lets him. Sighs deeply as his kisses drift further down, over her stomach and onto her thighs. He peppers the inside of her legs, teasing her with the promise of a more intimate connection until she's writhing, breathless and knotting the sheet in her fists.

“Please,” she gasps and he chuckles.

“Please what, Samantha? Tell me what you want.”

“You know what I want.”

He laughs again. “But of course I do. However, I want to hear you say it.”

“I-I want...” She's never been good at vocalising her desires, preferring to take control and get there herself. But he will not settle for that, for anything less than what he wants. “Your tongue,” she murmurs. “I want you to lick me.”

“Indeed?” His thumb brushes her clit and sends a jolt through her. “There, perhaps?”

“Yeah, just... there.”

“Like this?” And he dabs her clit. Her back arches and she cries out. “I'll take that as a yes,” he chuckles.

She's always know he has a clever mouth, has been the recipient of several tirades. She didn't know he could do this, and how. His tongue proves to be very talented and he sweeps long licks over her cunt, sucks on her clit until she can barely breathe.

Then his fingers slip back inside her and the universe ceases to exist. All she knows, all she can feel is his hot tongue and artful fingers. He crooks them, hitting her g-spot, and she screams, the climax tearing her spine from her body, agony and ecstasy rolled into one overwhelming package.

Baal moves over her as she lies there, boneless and moaning. Slides back in, gentle this time. Rides her climax, extending it, causing violent aftershocks to ripple. Then he pushes harder, faster and she's climbing again, peaking again, shattering around him.

“Sam,” he says and shudders. Heat floods her as he comes and she moans again.

Her arms circle him as he drops onto her. She clings, scared and desperate, with no idea what she does now. The world has ended and he is all she has left.

“Oh God,” she mutters, sick with fear.

“Hush.” He strokes her cheek, holds her tighter. “It's okay.”

It's not. It can't be.

“No. Th-they...” She chokes off, unable to finish.

“I know.” He lifts his head, kisses her gently. “But you're alive. We survived. And where there are survivors, there is hope.”

Sam gazes into Baal's eyes. They hold certainty and determination, and something stirs within her. It might even _be_ hope. She breathes out.

“We have to stop them,” she says, finding strength returning to her. He has given her that back, and she is profoundly grateful.

“We will, Samantha.”

This is her life now, then – an impossible fight against a powerful foe, her team an ex-System Lord and a handful of Jaffa. Plus whoever made it to Atlantis.

They'll go there first. Oh, she'll have to talk very quickly to get them to accept him, but is there a choice? Surely even he is a better prospect than bowing to the Ori?

He does not turf her out of his bed, but gathers her to his side. She curls against him, tasting herself on his lips, and rests in his arms.

Before she gives over to the sleep she desperately needs, she echoes his words, feeling them.

“We will.”


End file.
